Mound Spirits

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Clearwater Poet
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Mound Spirits

Post by Pellethie » Mon Jul 04, 2011 5:04 pm

A late September early evening and already swarms of flying insects had began to visit our camp. Small wonder as the weather thus far remained clear and warm despite Autumn’s arrival. All through dinner common house-like flies and their more notorious metallic green kin took to swooping in on our grub which prompted me to ask what kind of crap did he cook. Then as pre-dusk shadows spread a bit more buzzing hordes of biting gnats and other tiny ‘no see ems’ set upon us.

“Ain’t it about time you light those bug candles of yours, Flip ?” I asked while batting at an after dinner Horsefly who had thought to bite off another small chunk of warm bloody flesh before calling it a day.
“Yep” He agreed and proceeded to move two citronella candle buckets from truck bed to table. Lighting them he suggested we get a fire going as well in hopes that smoke would sally these small hungry unwanted guests hither from us at least. Bug candles, kindling, pre-cut firewood, Coleman propane lanterns, Flipping Bird, an almost always well prepared camper brought along every thing we needed to keep us well illuminated, warm and bug free throughout the coming night. Popping open a bottled ale, he then shooed away the Horsefly and told me to fetch his box of kindling from the truck. In earlier times I would of bluntly suggested he get the kindling himself, but growing old had allowed me to be a little more courteous. After all Flip saw fit to supply our camp with such. Delivering the box to him I dared not assist further as Flip had been our fire maker for decades upon these camping trips. Although an extremely skilled woodsman, Flipping Bird was an unusual fellow to say the least. Around his narrow head, confining long greasy looking dark hair, a blue bandana worn in Apache fashion. Above a beak-like nose and behind a pair of thick glasses were two dark and beady Crow-like eyes. Sometimes we called him Birdman. Garbed in baggy relaxed style jeans and a vintage wide collared, short sleeved button-up saffron hued garment that looked like an old bowling shirt, he had the appearance of a renegade Moose Lodger. I had known him well since childhood and our decades long friendship outlasted school, careers, marriages or any other moves we’ve made in life. Our camping trips had taken us all over Virginia’s stretch of the Appalachian Mountains and sometimes beyond. As always whenever camping by a river or stream in warm weather, we could always expect to be troubled by small biting insects. Many times I heard the word Shenandoah as meaning ‘Daughter of the Stars’ and had thought it was a befitting name for such a beautiful river. Close behind our camp it’s wild musical swift flow over and around river rocks was quite soothing. While watching Flip arrange, then soak the kindling with charcoal starter, I took a big swig of ale and muttered out a quick appreciative thanks to the spirits of this valley for allowing us such favorable conditions. Camped upon a grass field without a single tree nearby there was nothing to lash tarp cords to make shelter from falling rain. At least the grass would provide more of a soft cushion for both tent floor and sleeping bags.
We were not the only ones visiting Low Water Bridge Campground as there were several other tent campers, a popup trailer and two RVers spread out upon this large grassy clearing. Although we usually stayed at State or Federal Parks this place held promise of decent fishing and perhaps a bit of relic hunting as objects often wash out of river banks. This great valley was rich in history, lore and new discoveries of old times passed. During the Civil War General Stonewall Jackson brilliantly defended Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley ’bread basket’ from federal troops. Well over a hundred years before that grim struggle Virginia’s royal governor Alexander Spotswood led an expedition of his Golden Horseshoe Knights over the Blue Ridge and down into the valley. Upon reaching the river, which Spotswood named Euphrates they uncorked wine bottles and got drunk before taking their leave of the Shenandoah. He had thought to have discovered what traders and trappers knew existed for some time. Publication of Spotswood’s discovery sparked English, German, Irish and Scot immigrants to seek to places to settle as Virginia’s coastal plain was mostly under ownership of wealthy tobacco planters. Crossing the Blue Ridge, they dared the wilderness clearing fertile soil as to build their cabins and farm.
During those early days beautiful yet dangerous valley was still coveted by native tribes such as the Iroquoian Mingo(Minqua), Siouan Tutelo and eastern bands of Algonquian Shawnee who had built villages along the river. There were also bands of Cherokee, Catawba and Yuchi either raiding, trading or hunting the game once so abundant in this valley. Before these historically known times there were traces of what anthropologists call Oneota Culture in the Shenandoah Valley and throughout the Appalachians. It is thought by some that the eastern Siouan speaking Catawbas, Monacans, Saponi, Tutelo and Yuchi were the descendants of these mound builders. For reasons unknown sometime around the 13th century many of these eastern Siouan tribes scaled down their mound building culture and some of them even moved across the Mississippi River where they became known historically as the Kansa, Missouri, Osage and Otoe tribes.
Still a place of wonder upon that early Autumn evening of 2005, I had the feeling there were many old spirits roaming the Shenandoah Valley. Washing down the toils of our day with cold ale we discussed our next task, cleaning our cookware and locking away ice chest contained foodstuffs up in the cab of Flip’s pickup truck as this was Black Bear country and saw no need bringing in large uninvited guest later tonight.

With little effort Flip had a decent blaze in our fire pit and we set out to the facility’s outdoor sink to wash cookware.

There wasn’t a whole lot going on around the campground’s office/store, sink and shower/restroom area except for two elderly ladies standing in the parking lot gabbing and enjoying nutty buddy ice cream cones. In passing them with our clean cookware they gave us the once over, returned my short greeting and quickly got back to their conversation concerning Luray Cavern’s gift shops all the while keeping a suspicious eye upon us. Into middle age Flip and I still appeared from out of the past. Who knows, to these two elderly RV vacationers Flip and I may of fit their visual concept of savagely treacherous hippy cult members bent on murderous mayhem. I found myself focusing upon their nutty buddies as such a cold and delicious treat would make for a decent dessert this rather warm evening.

Finding our fire had burned down a bit, Flip added two pieces of Black Walnut to appease any local spirits. Looking at the dancing blaze I thought of past camps where sometimes upwards of a dozen or more of both family and good friends would be seated around the fire, reveling with the coming of night. Over time that number had dwindled down to a few if that and this three day weekend we were but two.
Raising his ale high Flip cheered - “To those who cannot be here !”
“To those who have passed over to the other side !” I added holding my mug aloft
Taking a big swig, Flip then raised his bottle again - “To the infirmed !”
Laughing I cheered in again as well - “And for those whose wives will not allow them such far away outdoor revelry!” continuing I added - “No cheer at all I say, for those lazy jerkwads parked in front of their televisions all night and day stuffing their faces and growing out of their easy chairs like human vegetation”
“The hell with them” Flip hissed - “Too damned good to sleep on the ground”
I concurred with a belch then went for stronger drink as our beverage provisions included a bottle of Vodka and some fine Canadian sipping whisky along with a case of decent ale. Poring myself a good measure of whisky I caught the scent of other campers cooking their suppers and felt a cooling breeze spring up from the north. Throwing back a cupful, an involuntary grunt escaped my lips as I much rather be camping in a more remote wooded location than a well trimmed privately owned campground in clear view of everyone else. Still it was good to be lodging beside the Shenandoah River. In front of us loomed Massanutten Mountain stretching some 50 miles in the middle of the valley. Long Mountain we called it and now both gazed at Massanutten’s wood slopes and ridge turning a dark sapphire blue at day’s ending. Turning to have a look behind our camp I was delightfully dazzled by the sun’s last rays playing upon swift flowing waters.
As dusk bade farewell to day’s ending we entered Flip’s large dome tent and passed our ceremonial pipe, but not before offering it to the four winds. Emerging elated enough to peer over the ridge we resumed our place at the picnic table. Now into the whisky and getting a bit deep in his cup Flip spoke of times passed and friends missed - “It seems here lately we’re the only ones with gumption enough to endure such simple pleasure”
Downing another slug of whisky I returned - “And what pleasure it is flowing through my veins like a warming liquid fire. Well Flip those you speak of have forgot the mountains and have grown fond of the flatlands as everything they desire is not far and the going is easy” Having said that I suggested we take a walk around the campground.
Snatching up our walking sticks we struck out into dusk’s deepening shadow. Very much relaxed Flip and I strode across the grassy field with little effort as it was a good stretch of level riverside land. While passing other tent campers we exchanged simple greetings, but when we walked by the campground’s small, simple guest cabins we were hailed by three rather friendly and obviously tanked-up cabin guest who engaged us in a bit of small talk. Rob, his wife Angie and brother Ed slurred invitations to sit down for a slug of moonshine, which we did being polite to our hospitable neighbors. Flip and I did manage to gather some information regarding the outfitter’s business down at Low Bottom Bridge proper. We learned for a reasonable fee they would provide a canoe and transportation up river as we could easily paddle back to where we started. Thanking our neighbors for the libations, I told them to drop by anytime for a drink and at that we bid them goodnight before heading back to camp.

Back at our camp Flip and I poured another good measure of sipping whisky taking in the cooling night air. Aside from the occasional Moth or lace-wing river fly we were no longer troubled by pesky insects. Having a good look out at the other campfires had me thinking about dark nights hundreds if not thousands of years ago when bark, reed and hide covered lodges were built on such level stretches of good riverside land. Like my fellow campers here now at Low Bottom Bridge, those early inhabitants of this beautiful valley found great comfort in sitting by the fire, eating, conversing, laughing and enjoying what life they had within the warming glow.

Replacing a spent propane tank and re-lighting his Coleman lantern, Flip then rose, ambled over to the truck to retrieve my large state topographical atlas. Thumbing through the pages he, quickly located our position. Tapping his boney finger upon a place that looked to be six or seven miles upstream south of us as the Crow flies. Scanning the map with blurry bloodshot eyes we both commented upon how the horseshoe bend meandering of the Shenandoah appeared as a long slender snake slithering forth.
“Indian Grave Ridge” Flip said once again tapping his finger upon the spot - “Must have been a village nearby” On the map this area appeared to be a sloping hill extending down from Massanutten making for one in many such oxbows.
“Some eight years ago the wife and I found and visited part of the Indian Grave Ridge having chanced upon a gravel access road leading to it’s lower reaches” I informed the Birdman seeing a plan formulate in those dark beady eyes.
“What’s it like ?” He eagerly asked.
“From what I remember my wife thought it to be one of the most beautiful spots on the river while I felt a something strange about the area. I did find a good size red jasper spear or knife blade laying in some sand below the bank. Didn’t I show it to you once ? Thinking about restoring it to an antler handle” I believe if there is a grave yard, it’s atop that hill. Are ye saying this bend in the river warrants a bit of exploration ?”
“Jasper point, eh ? That means there could be other artifacts to be found” Flip returned True we hunted and collected surface finds of projectile points or a rare stone ax head, but I wanted nothing to do with any grave goods. One may never be sure of what could be brought home with such ceremonial objects found in wild and lonely places. Closing my atlas I suggested to Flip - “We should take great care in not disturbing and offending any spirits of the dead. We’ll not be pecking and scratching over a burial ground” Respectful of the Spirit World we both agreed not to bring away nothing but the usual points and tools. No need to chance bad medicine.
“Indian Grave Ridge” he repeated, adding - “Wonder what tribe use to live there ?”
“May have been Tutelo, Shawnee or Minqua or else an earlier people like the mound builders”
“I though they lived along the Mississippi and Ohio” Flip returned.
“Oh they did, but they had outposts and trading centers here in the Appalachians as there’s a lot of workable lithic resources here about. Mica, Steatite, pockets of quartz, flint and jasper” I then went on telling him about the Oneota or Moneton people who once inhabited this area. - “It’s said they spoke an eastern Siouan dialect like your ma’s folk the Lumbee”
Rubbing his pointed chin he said - “Like the Monacan and Saponi”
“Like the Tutelo” I added. - “Most of them were probably driven out or killed off by drifting bands of Minqua or Shawnee. Their mounds can still be found here in the hills”
Sadly enough many of them had been violated by early collectors or razed down for easy plowing no doubt disturbing some pretty powerful spirits and bringing about bad medicine. I tried to picture in my mind of how these people appeared and what lives they led here in this ancient yet beautiful valley long before the first cow-hide boot tread upon the Shenandoah.
Turning the lamp down low we once again passed our pipe while putting together a plan for tomorrow. We would secure a good canoe, be transported some ten miles south upstream by the local outfitters and have an enjoyable time paddling, fishing and exploring a good stretch of river. We spent this night’s last wakeful hours having several more good quaffs, playing a few hands of poker and engaging each other in slurring conversations concerning scattered subjects of no particular importance. Having about enough of this drunken revelry Flip and I called it a night as we wanted to rise early.

“Too good to sleep on the ground” I mocked, as the Birdman inflated his camping air mattress. Finding the grass beneath our tent floor and my sleeping bag rather comfortable, I fell into a sodden slumber as the river music sung me asleep.

For a somewhat reasonable fee the outfitters transported us and canoe some ten miles or more south, up river. Putting us out at a rather scenic landing, they went over some safety tips then bid us farewell. Although flowing swiftly There were no large rapids within eyesight, but then again we knew not what lay ahead around. The long mountain Massanutten’s ridge ever in our sight was a mist marbled dark jade. The landing appeared well used and upon an old Willow’s bark was tacked a notice. From what we read from the plastic coated paper our hopes of a good day’s fishing were quickly dashed. There had been a big fish kill because of pollutants from factory waste upstream. We took notice of a warning concerning how many existing fish a human could eat within a lengthy time limit. Very dishearting indeed. Funny I don’t recall reading any such warnings at the outfitters or campground.

Paddling down just short of the next bend, we tied up to a jammed dead tree and cast lines into some slow swirling water. No sooner than our little twister tail spinner grubs hit the water we both hooked and landed some little Smallmouth Bass, one of them had sores on it’s body thus putting a damper on any further angling. Putting away our rods, Flip then pulled his slipknot and we made way to midstream rounding the first bend and soon to be rounding the next, a long neck of land jutting out from the east. Off from the bank we saw some rather upscale vacation homes, cottages and deck-like piers. Passing an old gentleman reclining on such a pier we learned that most of the good size Smallmouth had been killed off. He also advised us to shower once we got back, especially after swimming. Pulling away from the pier-deck Flip hissed - “What the 4#cK have they did to this river ?” I went on to inform him that the current executive administration had pulled regulations from many of riverside plants all over the country.
Cursing under his breath he then hissed - “Waynesboro eh ?”
“Wayneboro, Elkton and the town of Shenandoah” I added, then mentioned how the upper valley was experiencing residential growth mostly bedroom communites of Northern Virginians and DCers - “All those lawn chemicals running off into feeder streams and river”
“Yeah I heard a lot of the old farmers, mostly their kids have been selling out to developers like all that sprawl up in Clarke and Jefferson Counties. You saw how much Front Royal has grown yesterday when we picked up provisions” Flip returned with a scowl. Despite all the wrong, we resigned ourselves to having an enjoyable canoe trip downstream back to Low Bottom Bridge. Upon rounding that next bend we gazed at a magnificent vista The sun was cutting though what was left of dawn’s foggy start, now giving the mountain a rich azure hue. Tendrils of river mist rose and hung about the abundant Laurel growing along Shenandoah’s banks. It was beautifully primeval and I thought about times long past when large lumbersome creatures such as Mammoths, Mastodonts and savage Short Face Bears roamed one of the oldest valleys of the world. Herds of Woodland Bison, Elk and Deer, ever the prey of Dire wolves, Lions and deadly Sabertooth Cats along with the most efficient predator of them all, man.
We found a low grassy bank to land at the tip of this sloping oxbow. Stretching our limbs and finding a nearby large flat rock in which to sit, we took refreshment and passed the pipe. Elated Flip and I silently marveled at our surroundings and when a Egret lazily flapped by, Flip proclaimed it was a good sign. Hiding our important gear in a clump of Flame Azalea we moved through pleasant woodland upon what appeared to be a Deer trail. Crossing a rough gravel road Flip and I began a sloping ascent upon what appeared to be a crude path or Deer trail. Coming upon a large bare patch of yellowish clay-like soil luck was with us as Flip found a long black flint Guilford point and I discovered another red jasper spear or knife blade still sharp enough to slice through flesh. A little further up and we came to another such bare patch where Flip layed eyes on and plucked forth a perfectly round slate disk around some 3” in diameter, but it wasn’t until he turned up it’s other side did we it had been engraved. Unsnapping his canteen Flip proceeded to wash away the dry yellow powdery dirt. At first glance it appeared to be a stylized animal of some sort, but upon closer inspection the image was more human-like crouching with talon like hands and feet. A beard-like growth jutted from it’s chin and what appeared to be a single short horn protruded from it’s forehead. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen in my archeology books.
“Whadda think ?” Flip asked, smiling as if this object was the find of the day.
“A fetish or ceremonial piece of some type”
“Cool!” Flip returned.
Having to give warning I added - “No not cool at all, Flippy, there’s always the chance this is a grave offering that has washed out and rolled down. Look how finely worked it is”
Flip holding to his face as if it were a pocket watch certainly did not want to hear my next heeding words - “Maybe it’s best that you put that back where it was found”
“Why the hell for ?”
“Because it may be evil or else something too powerful for us to possess” I could tell Flip was reluctant to give back this unusual find and although he set it back into the shallow dirt deppression from which it came, there was no great care invested on his part in the disk’s return. Back in the dirt, Flip and I gazed awhile at this artifact before continuing uphill.
Passing through a rather thick clump of Rhododendrons we came to a level stretch of open forest and found ourselves staring at unnatural looking mound some 30’ in diameter and only about 6’ at it’s highest point. Atop this mound grew several good sized trees along with a bit of underbrush. Part of this earthwork has succumbed to roots and erosion. Sticking out of the yellowish clay was a large out of place engraved Whelk shell. No doubt a trade item from the Atalantic coast. Stepping in for a closer look we dared not pull it out of the clay.

The eerie sensation I experienced some years ago during my first visit here had returned and casting a glance at Flipping Bird, he seemed ill at ease as well. Backing away and giving this mound a wide birth, we continued on over this sloping oxbow.

There’s probably no good reason for pushing on through this strange wood aside from wanting to have a look on the other side in hopes of finding a few more projectile points, but the going became more difficult. Not difficult in the sense of steep inclines or thick barely passable underbrush as these were fairly open woods and we were still upon the same level part of the hill as was the mound. Halting, I inquired how Flipping Bird felt.
“Weird man, It feels like I’m in a bad dream wanting to get out but can’t seem to get my feet going in that direction”
Looking down at my own feet the ground seemed blurry - “Come on Flip, let’s check out the other side” But in moving again the air around me felt thick and it was like I was walking in chin-high water - “Something ain’t right, Flip”
“Know what you mean man, my legs are shaking” Casting a glance at his legs they were more than shaking as both were spasmadicly jerking in some type of knee-popping motion that had me fearing the old Birdman was going to topple at any second.
“Let’s break here for a few minutes and have a rest” I suggested before taking a seat upon the ground. Flip did likewise and for awhile conditions seemed to be going back to normal. I told Flip of my visit to another creepy place, but on the Chesapeake Bay in Mathews County called The Old House Woods - “ I felt the same eerieness and experienced problems with my vision. Didn’t see any of the spooks that others have reported but both the Dibble Brothers and I thought or actually saw a different view than the thick Pine woods, underbrush, marsh land and bay waters of that area”
“How so ?”
“Well Flip, instead of looking out and seeing the Chesapeake, we saw more land and aside from a low strand of weird-looking fir trees, the land was open and grassy, but the weirdest part of all of that was the change of tempature. It seemed to drop from about the high 80s to around 40 degrees. At that time all three of us thought maybe we shouldn’t of been in those woods. With that foreign vista ahead of us we tested our own sanity by turning and having a look behind”
“And ?”
“And we saw the same thick tangle of Pine, underbrush and bramble traveled through earlier, but when we looked ahead again the weird landscape looked upon only seconds before was a slight view of the bay through Pine and underbrush. What we saw or had thought to have was no more. It was like we were looking into a different time”
“I heard there are headless dogs in those woods” Flip said as a cooling breeze came down the slope.
“Pirates, British redcoats and the spirit of an old woman too” I added while tilted his narrow head as if attempting listening to distant sounds.
With dark eyes darting about he whispered - “Did you hear that ?”
“Hear what ?”
“Shhhhhhhhhhhh, just listen”
Above the sound of Shenandoah’s swift flow, I could now hear a distant wailing coming down from where this hill joined Massanutten and it seemed to be upon this odd cool downdraft blowing on us, chilling my blood. The wailing grew louder.
“It’s moving downhill” Flip said in a choking, frightening manner. We both slowly rose to our feet, eyes straining to peer through forest growth. With each new wail my hackles went up as what ever it was seemed to be getting closer.
Then as if halting just short of our position the wailing ceased.
Flip regarded me with serious but frightened eyes - “What the hell do you think it is ?”
“Hopefully a Bobcat or bird of some sort, maybe a Panther” We had heard reports of Panthers or Mountain Lions being spotted in the Appalachians. Touching upon such a possibility I firmly gripped my Dogwood walking stick in one hand and involuntarily tapped the hilt of my long knife with the other. Flip took it a step further as he had drawn his own hunting knife from it’s sheath. Although the wailing had stopped I had a feeling that something was watching us from up the slope. Then a strange tittering sound began, seemingly from all around us, but we heard no physical movement. Now I drew my own knife and suggested to Flip that we -”Get the 4#(k out of here !” It appeared we were both in total agreement, but I had to throw an arm up to check Flip’s head long rush to the other side of this hill - “It would be better if we go back over ground already covered” With that we turned and backtracked past mound and down the same Deer trail that led up to that eerie place of wails. Instead of the tittering we now heard more wailing behind us which lent fleetness to our heels. Crossing the gravel road Flip and I moved through a bit of brush and was extremely overjoyed to see our beached canoe along with some Kayakers moving downstream. By that time the weird wailing had ceased. Gathering gear and pushing off to midstream we exchanged simple greetings with the paddlers but told them nothing of our strange experience. Even now in the river’s flow we couldn’t seem to paddle out of view of that sloping oxbow quick enough for our liking.

Returning the canoe back at the outfitters store, we were swiftly into the booze as our whole trip down river there was an eerie sense of being followed and an expectation something was going to pounce on us from wooded banks.
Pouring a double slug of vodka down his gullet, Flip inquired once again - “What the hell do you think that was ?”
Taking a long quaff of cold ale, I replied - “ Don’t think it was any bird, Bobcat or even a Panther”
Helping himself to some more vodka, Flip said - “It sounded human until it started making those clicking noises”
“Never heard a tittering like that before, that’s for sure, but I don’t think it was human”
“No ?”
“May have been at one time and then again may of never been human at all”
Shaking off the jolt of such another large slug of vodka, Flip mentioned something about evil spirits and the like.
“You could be correct” I returned - “Maybe it was a protecting spirit of some type, maybe even a ghost as there were more weird happenings besides that wailing. But I did notice something which may of caused a disturbance”
“And what was that” The Birdman asked as he lit a cigarette.
Bumming a rare smoke off of him, I mentioned the disk he had picked up - “ Wasn’t it face down when you pulled it out of the dirt ?”
“Yeah ?”
“Well Flippy, in putting it back you placed it engraved side up. Remember we looked at it before moving on ?”
“Yeah ?”
“That may of triggered something”
“Triggered what ?”
“Don’t you think those ancient people who once lived along this river and built that mound possessed powerful medicine ? I’m thinking whoever was laid under that mound of dirt to be either an important chief person or powerful medicine maker. Whatever was back there, it sounded none-too happy with our company. I don’t even feel good about taking that jasper point or the one you found” It was an uneasiness that prompted me to never collect such artifacts again. With that we hit the showers and got supper going, speaking little to none of our experience upstream. Finishing a fine meal of ribeye steaks, camp taters and beans, we drank and talked of plans of a Spring camping trip with the women and children or possibly even a Winter day excursion up on the Blue Ridge Parkway. That night I dreamed of that red jasper point and a heavily tattooed old man with a head dress of white Egret feathers. Although not that all nightmarish, I still shook myself out of that dream.

The remainder of our small holiday was spent either close to camp or at Shenandoah State Park across the river from camp. Never again would we return to that strange oxbow.

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The Fat Cat
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Re: Mound Spirits

Post by heinzs » Sat Aug 27, 2011 10:51 am

This is a great story. I apologize for the delay in my response and will make no excuses. Thank you for posting this.

An' it harm none, do what ye will. Blessed Be.
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